Sherlock's epiphany
by Firebird Holmes
Summary: SHERLOLLY ALERT! just my take on what should happen in season 3. with a little smut in the later chapters ofc. . This starts from the scene in the morgue where sherlock asks her for help! T rating earlier section, M rating later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

The day had been particularly hectic for her. there was a serial killer on the loose. 3 bodies had come in needing her attention and she barely had slept in the last 3 days. Rubbing her temples she locked up her office and began the long walk to the door. Molly sighed as she fumbled for the keys to the morgue, then promptly dropped them with a scream when she heard the sexy baritone of the bane of her life, sherlock.

"You were wrong you know."

"Sherlock what?.."

" you do count and you have always counted and i have always trusted you. You were right..im not okay."

As he walks closer to her she sees the sheen of tears in his eyes. Sherlock, the man who so rarely showed emotion had tears in his eyes! Tears rushed unbidden into her eyes.

"Tell me what's wrong."

" molly, i think i am going to die."

"What do you need?"

"If i wasnt everthing that you think i am, everything that I think i am, would you still want to help me? "

"What do you need?" Her voice is a heartbreaking whisper.

"You."

Her heart almost stopped. He was gazing at her with such intensity. He stepped up closer to her, so close their bodies almost were touching. She could hardly believe this was happening; let alone what he just said. His hand came up to caress her face, gently cradling her chin, using his fingertips to wipe away a stray tear. The silence, charged with so much emotion, she can hardly believe that it is the same man holding her chin as if she would break, as if she were fragile, as if she was precious.

"I've hurt you havent I?" Sherlock's eyes were full of regret and an emotion that molly was scared to name. She mutely shook her head, still in shock that this was happening. Her lips parted in an unconcious invitation, her pulse sped up, her pupils dilated.

The detective in sherlock noted all the signs, yet was unable to process them rationally, the way he had with irene adler. Suddenly all he could think about were the countless times he had hurt her, all the times they had worked together in the morgue, her silent support, and the look in her eyes last christmas when he had analysed her gift. Fool! He silently berated himself, feeling guilt wrack him.

Molly looked at his eyes, the very same eyes that had haunted her dreams and saw his pain. Desperate to ease his pain she stood on her tiptoes and closed the small gap between them. Their lips touched, caught, clung. The kiss was sweet, and hesitant. Since she was already standing against ; the door sherlock simply stepped closer to her closing the gap between their bodies, trapping her against the door with his body. Her arms came up to twine around his neck and his hands went to her waist, simply holding her, feeling her warmth through layers of wool and polyester.

Molly broke the kiss remembering what he had said earlier about dying. "Sherlock, what happened? What do you need me to do?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, stepped back from her hoping to restore his intellect.

"I need you to help me fake my death."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

It had been 10 days since Sherlock's supposed death. ; 10 whole days in which the detective had been camping out in Molly's flat. Just her flat mind you. Not her bed. It seemed as if the intense moment in the morgue had never happened. The kiss had never happened. He had become silent, brooding, and kept his distance from her. She tip toed around him, confused and unsure of dealing with this brooding Sherlock. Watching john cry at his grave had affected him in a way Morriarty and his machinations never could. He spent hours simply lying there on the sofa, not doing anything. Molly would have guessed that he was working on a case, only that the detective was supposed to be dead, hence no cases. However he was working on a case. The case of the world's only consulting detective and his mousy pathologist.

Since that day Sherlock had made no advances toward her person, had not made any declarations. Molly had simply attributed it to fear and adrenaline coursing through his system that had caused him to act in such a manner, so completely out of character for him; emotions, tears, not to mention kissing. Oh but that kiss! She caught herself touching her lips at times as if to recapture the moment that he had deigned to kiss her. It had been more than she could ever hope to get from him. At times she would simply sit in her room and cry for all the impossible things that she wanted and could not have. She could not cry at home now, because Sherlock would deduce it. She cried at work and her colleagues left her alone, thinking that she was grieving for the fraudulent detective. Only one person talked to her about it. Mary Morstan. Molly cried to her about her heartache, told her everything except that Sherlock was still alive. She shared her fears that she might not be able to cope with the fact that her Sherlock was gone. And it was true. The Sherlock that she had fallen for that had been oblivious to her feelings was gone. Now he knew. Now he had kissed her. God only knew what he would do with this revelation. He might try to distance himself from her. He might leave. Every night when she reached home, she breathed a sigh of relief that he was still at home.

They had not really discussed the arrangements post Reichenbach, but for now he seemed content to spend his time on her sofa, eating very little, and sawing away at his violin. She had bought the violin for him knowing that it was one of his passions. The melodies at poured out at random intervals, the mood varying widely. One thing that was for sure was that in Sherlock's hands the violin seemed to come to life. Sometimes she would simply stop whatever she was doing to simply listen to his music. At times the music was so hauntingly beautiful that it made her breath catch and tears rush to her eyes. At others it was jaunty, energetic. The tunes seemed unfamiliar to her and she realized why when one day she walked in on him writing sheet music. As the days progressed she realized that one particular haunting melody was played most frequently.

They rarely spoke, instead choosing to live in a comfortable silence. Sherlock had gotten himself a ginger wig and a fake moustache. That way he was not cooped up inside her flat.

Little did molly know of the inner turmoil that the detective was facing. Though he appeared to show no outward emotional reaction, the kiss had turned his previously ordered world upside down. Irene Adler's effect on his psyche had been nothing compared to this! Because of the physical contact of his majora on hers, his brain's pleasure centres had been activated to such an extent that it had eclipsed his intellect. Mousy molly Hooper, pathologist, patient, red head, quiet, plain, shy, small breasts, small lips, loyal, sincere, trusting, self-sacrificing beautiful molly Hooper. He could go on for quite a bit. Living in her flat, being surrounded by her things, her scent, her essence; she seemed to have gotten under his skin and lodged herself securely in the general vicinity of his heart. Oh if only john could see his situation now; he would find it exceedingly amusing. In a month or so he could see john. No doubt he would find it pertinent to perform some kind of violence on him. Sherlock's mouth curved in a half smile thinking of the meeting.


	3. Warning-Chapter 3

**Ok peeps I hope you have enjoyed this far! I will try to post as fast as I can, but things are abit crazy with my final assignments coming up! Meanwhile enjoy, and yes yes sherlolly is coming sooooon! **

Chapter 3

Molly was out. Meeting John with her friend Mary. She thought he didn't know. Silly Molly. Did she think he did not notice her worried frowns, the way her teeth worried her lower lips, her packing of chocolate and tea for the weekly trips she made to 221b Baker Street? Lately though her anxiety seemed to have reduced. Perhaps it was due to the budding romance between Mary Morstan and John.

He returned his attention to the Derren Brown special on Channel 4. The man was not bad, not bad for an ordinary person anyway. He seemed slightly more intelligent than the usual homo sapiens that one might meet on the road. Sometimes he really wondered just how people got on with their lives with such tiny little brains. Life must be much simpler.

Ding dong!

Sherlock generally refrained from answering the door on account of him supposedly being dead and all, but the insistent ringing annoyed him. He swept up the wig from the red carpet, planted it on his head, and proceeded to answer the door.

A postman stood on the cheery welcome mat in front of molly's door. Young. Barely 20. Aged by the use of narcotics, definitely not his only job judging by the rough calluses on his hands. Dockworker. And dishwasher it seemed. Lack of sleep from working multiple jobs evidenced by deep dark circles under the eyes. Ergo poor. Ergo in debt. Clothes standard issue royal postal service uniform, brand new, yet to be washed, still starched causing abrasions on his neck, ergo he had just started working. First day; judging by the nervous tic in the neck. Dyed hair: brown roots showing in blond hair. Flat foot. Old leather shoes, expensive, but the make is old, so a hand-me-down. Smoker. Heavy smoker. Nicotine stains on front two fingers and darkened lips.

All this in 3 seconds from the time that he had opened the door; not bad, he told himself. At least his mind was not deteriorating in the absence of cases. His mouth kicked up in his trademark sardonic half smile. 'Yes?' He asked rather brusquely.

'I..er..have a package for...let's see.. Erm.. Oh yea S holmes!'

Sherlock froze. However the postman did not give any indication of recognizing Sherlock. Merely the messenger boy then.

'Erm sir? You have to sign for it. It bein' a special delivery and all.'

'Yes alright' Sherlock's jaw was taut with tension. Impatiently he took the proffered pen and signed for it. Taking the slim brown envelope he shut the door in the postman's face. It looked nondescript. Too slim to hold anything of much danger. No writing on the top or the back; he walked to the mini laboratory he had set up in Molly's Kitchen. Using a letter opener he slit the top open and slid the contents onto the worktop. The contents of the package had him stepping back in a mixture of shock and fear. Inside the envelope, there had been a lock of Molly's burnished hair, placed into a Ziploc bag, perfectly so as to not disturb the natural curl of individual hairs. They had been packed almost lovingly. Sherlock would have known that the hair belonged to Molly perfectly because the unique shade matched the shade of the burnished wood of the violin she had bought for him. An unconscious association on her part he was sure. There was no message with it. But for a brilliant mind like Sherlock's he had absolutely no problem in deciphering the message. The only person who could know that Sherlock was still alive was Morriarty. Well him and Mycroft. And Mycroft had absolutely no reason to do this. It was a warning. It was also a hello.

Suddenly he knew with absolute certainty that his Molly was in danger. It also became imperative that he find her so that he knew that she was safe. He wanted her next to him, in his sight. Maybe then this debilitating worry would abate. He picked up his phone and dialled her number, too agitated to text. He picked up his coat and moustache ready to rush out of the door when she answered the call.

'Hello? Molly? Are you alright? Where are you?'

'Sherlock? I'm alright; I'm actually below the flat. I should be home soon. Why what happened? Is everything okay? Did you set fire to the kitchen again?'

'Nothing. It's nothing..'

'Ookay, I'l be up soon. If you are hungry you can order food first.'

'No its okay. I'll wait for you'

He hung up the phone, knit his fingers and settled down to wait in his usual chair. So the warning was not for today; but for the future. She was in danger. His mind could not deal with the ramifications of what kind of danger that she was in, and what could happen. Now the dilemma, should he tell her? Or shouldn't he?

**o.o scary. Please review! Should he** **tell Molly?**


	4. Pheromones-Chapter 4

**okay so this chap is mostly fluff. i try to** **update as fast as i can, but please bear with me, im smack in the middle of my term! :P oh and another thing, im a woman. Not a man. XD so anws enjoy!**

Molly closed her phone and tapped it on her chin. That was decidedly odd. Well odder than usual for Sherlock. He had sounded shaken! Maybe it was good that she was close by. She rounded the staircase and headed for the door of her flat. Praying that she would not find the apartment in a disaster she unlocked the door and stepped inside. 'Sherlock! I'm home!'

Sherlock stood up from his chair and moved to her so quickly, one moment she was looking at him and the next she was pressed tightly against his chest. His face was buried in her auburn hair as he breathed her name. The analytical part of Sherlock's brain noticed the pheromones emitted from her hair and detachedly linked it to a biological adaptation of females to emit pheromones from their scalp to attract the right male who often is taller than her; an evolutionary adaption to ensure the survival of the fittest. The man within Sherlock however was roused to passion by her scent. She smelt of cherries and autumn. Delicious. He could spend hours in her hair and not become bored. The arm that he had curled around her waist tightened bringing her even closer to him. She did not resist, in fact she dropped her bag, letting it thud at her feet, wrapping her own arms around him. Pressed against his chest she was inundated by his scent, till she grew almost drunk with it. He smelt amazing, all spicy male and sandalwood. Dreamily she thought 'If they could bottle this scent they would make millions'. This was her last logical thought before her higher brain shut down as Sherlock swept aside her hair and laid a soft kiss on her forehead. She melted at the gentleness of his kiss unable to believe that this was the same Sherlock who had so cruelly eviscerated her with words last Christmas. Surely something had to have happened to cause him to behave so differently. Loath as she was to, she removed his hands which currently were spanning her back so easily. She was struck by just how similar this was to the last time that he had kissed her. She stepped back from him, walked to the kitchen, now self-conscious of the way she had hugged him. As she was leaving her bag on one of the kitchen tables, she noticed a brown envelope and a Ziploc bag with a lock of hair.

Now Molly was no Sherlock, but she definitely recognised the hair as hers. She was bewildered. What was Sherlock doing with a lock of her hair? The romantic within her suggested that perhaps he had cut it when she had not noticed, and had been hiding it from her. But her years with Sherlock had taught her otherwise. He would never be so maudlin as to secretly keep a lock of her hair as much as she might wish it. And the envelope and Ziploc as well as the Postal Stamp on the envelope suggested that he might have received this in the mail. Confused she turned back to Sherlock, who was looking at her in a rather pensive manner. 'Sherlock, what is my hair doing in an envelope?'

'It came in the mail today. Special delivery. I had to sign for it.' When she continued to stare blankly at him he added, 'It was addressed to Sherlock Holmes.'

'So?'

He stared at her. Then he waited for her to grasp the import of the situation. Then the penny dropped. 'OH! But how? How Sherlock? You told me he shot himself! Through his throat! You told me that there was no way he could have survived! How? Will he come after you? Do we need to set up the safe house?'

He stared at her with something akin to amazement. The spider had sent him a lock of HER hair, and she worried about him! She really was quite remarkable. Despite the situation, the thought had him smiling.

'Why are you smiling? Have you gone mad? It's MORIARTY! The reason why you came up with this elaborate ruse is still up and about and apparently sneaking around snipping off bits of my hair-' at this she became rather pale, just realising what she just said. How had he gotten the lock of hair? The room suddenly seemed too small; no matter how hard she breathed she could not seem to get air into her lungs. Black dots started to pepper her vision and before she completely blacked out she saw Sherlock rush to catch her as her legs went weak. He managed to catch her before she had hit the ground. He lifted her small body into his arms and carried her to her bedroom.

**heehee! So the reichenbach hero is becoming a romantic hero! stay tuned! i will try to post chap 5 in the next week or so. :) oh and PLEASE REVIEW!**


	5. Fantasies - Chapter 5

**I really do apologise for the delay. I just submitted a stats report! So to make up for the delay I have written a longer chapter. BE WARNED SMUT ALERT! Enjoy!:D**

Chapter 5

Sherlock laid her carefully down on her soft colourful comforter; patchwork, simple, old, frayed, cherished, homemade, a gift from her mother. She was breathing normally; her heart beat was normal, if a little fast. He caught himself looking at her neck, her soft creamy white skin and felt himself respond physically. Hm. This was going to be a problem. It was ridiculous! This attraction, feelings whatever you wanted to label it. Judging by the collection of graphic images on john's laptop, it appeared that the average male required far more than the observation of a woman's neck in order to become aroused. But if that was the case, why was molly affecting him so? Meanwhile the object of his thoughts stirred. His eyes immediately shot to her chest to check for any change in her breathing pattern. Her coat had fallen open to reveal a jumper, a rather thin one judging by how he could see her nipples peaking through the cloth. The sight sent another bolt of lust through his body. He quickly looked around for a throw of any kind to warm her body. The window seat in her room caught his attention with an Egyptian cotton throw. He picked it up and placed it softly on her, making sure that her hands and feet were covered to make sure that she would be warm. However his keen eyes did not miss the notebook that the throw had been hiding. He picked up the book and glanced through the first page. Words like 'Sherlock', 'handsome', 'sexy', touched me', brushed his hands over' leapt out at him. He snapped the book shut. It was written in her hand. How many reports had he glanced over which were written in her hand? It was hers. Fantasies no doubt. Why would she fantasize about him? He pocketed the book, and walked back to his room. Perhaps this was the female equivalent of john's pictures. The need to know why she wrote niggled at him. He finally had a puzzle! He opened her laptop which he had borrowed (without her permission of course) and typed in his query. The amount and scope of information was..surprising..interesting..arousing. Armed with this info, he reached into his dressing gown and drew out the book. He ignored the slight tremble in his fingers and the noticeable bulge in his jammies and began reading.

_Dear Diary,_

_Ok I'm writing this just for my fantasies. It's getting unbearable seeing him at the morgue. I have to let the tension flow somewhere. So that is what this is for. So without further ado, here is the first one._

_-Molly Hooper _

_I stood at my table, lifting my ba_g _off my chair, ready to go home after a long day of work. Another long day of watching Sherlock. Today he had been wearing his trademark suit with a white shirt so tight that his buttons looked like they were going to pop at any moment. I wished they had. Shaking my head I scolded myself for foolishly thinking of things that could never happen. Sherlock was still in the building, working on another body for a recent murder. Normally I would have waited, willing to do just about anything to spend time close to him, despite how oblivious he was of me. I walked past the morgue where Sherlock was working, not bothering to say bye. What was the point? As I reached the door I heard footsteps behind me. I turned around to find the object of my affections walking toward me. "Where are you going?"_

"_I'm leaving Sherlock. I'm tired, I have been working for the past 15 hours, find someone else to help you"_

"_But I don't want them to help me. I only want you."_

_I lift my eyes toward him. I answer tiredly. "You only want me to help you because I bring you coffee, keep quiet while you work and stay out of your path. Find someone else to bully Sherlock"._

_He watches me. Just watches. After a while I get tired of his gaze and turn back to the door. As my hand finds the handle of the door, it is grabbed by his, and I am whirled around to face him. With one arm locked behind my back, it is all I can do to stare up at him. His eyes glitter with a different emotion. Something that I have never seen before, it almost looks like passion. It is my last thought before his lips touch mine, and all rational thought flees my mind. With one hand locked behind my back, there is nothing that I could do to free myself even if I wanted to. With my other hand I bring it up to graze his chin which is slightly rough with stubble. He gasps into my mouth and I smile, I am not powerless. He continues to kiss me, letting go of my hand to hold my waist, letting his tongue duel with mine. I felt him respond to my proximity, his maleness pressing into my stomach. He broke the kiss to drag in a shuddering breath; then realising that he had been snogging me in an open corridor. Taking my hand he ran back to my office. Both of us are gasping for breath by the time we reach my office and lock the door behind us. He gave me one of his heart-stopping smiles. I push his coat off his shoulders but before I can unbutton his shirt he lifts the many layers of sweaters off me and has my breasts in his hands. I cannot not help but remember how he had said my breasts were small and I start to blush and cover them. He removes my hands and simply says, "beautiful"._

_He lifts me easily, placing me on my wooden desk. This way he can reach me easily, not having to bend down too much. He thumbs my nipples experimentally and is rewarded by a short sharp moan. I reach up to unbutton his shirt, revealing his strong, hard body. I lean forward placing a kiss in the center of his chest, encouraged by the low growl that he emits. Suddenly impatient to see him naked I pull his shirt off ignoring the buttons that pop off his shirt and undo his trousers. I pulled down his briefs to free his manhood. He was already so aroused. Feeling naughty I stroke my hand down him loving the way he groans and bucks into my hand. He removes my hands from his person to divest me of all the clothing that still remains on me and lets his fingers tangle in the auburn curls which hide my secrets. Occasionally he nips my neck, realising that it drives me mad. I return the favour, dragging my fingers through his curly locks hardly believing what is happening. He touches me to find me wet, ready for him. His analytical mind does not let him take his pleasure in me, but makes him want to find out what makes me tick. He uses his fingers to find the sweet spots, knowing that he has found one by the sounds that I make. When he slips his fingers into me, I come, unable to take his teasing. I scream his name, and he gathers me into his arms as I come down from my peak. _

_He kisses me slowly, waiting for me, slowly increasing the pace of his kisses as my passion grows again. He urges me closer to him, to wrap my legs around his lean waist, as he slowly slips into me. I can't breathe, my eyes are locked with his. I have never felt this close with another human being. As he slips deeper into me, I arch back into his arms, absorbing the sensation of being filled by him. When he is buried to the hilt within me, he asks me, 'is this okay?'_

_I nod, too moved and inundated with sensation to reply him. He wraps himself around me and begins to move. I moan into his ear as the sensations buffet me in the storm that is his lovemaking. It is breath-taking. His strokes are long, slow, and gentle, as if he fears hurting me. When the pace becomes unbearable, I nip his neck, kissing him, and then I whisper in his ear, "faster, harder, I won't break'._

_He begins moving faster, making my inner muscles clench, and making pleasure spiral through me. I can feel him getting harder, impossibly larger within me, his thrusts becoming rougher and suddenly I'm soar over the edge and he goes still as he growls his completion into my ear. He holds me close as we collapse together on my desk, spent, satiated and happy. His weight is warm, welcome and comforting….._

By the middle of the first story, Sherlock had his member in his hand, stroking himself, pleasuring himself, the words Molly had written weaving an erotic image in his mind. By the time Molly had climaxed in her story, he had been reaching his peak, and he was in the middle of his own climax when the door to his room opened and Molly entered having recovered from her faint. She froze in shock, staring at him and his man parts. Before stuttering an apology and backing quickly out of the room.

**XD I really hope you guys enjoyed the smut in this chapter! More will be coming soon. If u pardon the pun. . REVIEWS PLEASEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!**


	6. Awkward-Chapter 6

**Sorry for the delay! and thank you for all the amazing reviews! please do suggest things that u might like to see in the story, and i'l try to weave it in if i can! and now w/o further ado, chapter 6!**

Chapter 6

Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. The litany kept repeating itself through Molly's mind. She stood frozen outside his room, too shocked to do anything else. The sight that had greeted her was seared across her mind. Try as she might, she could not forget it. The last thing she had ever expected Sherlock to do was this! She never thought that he would. While she had really steamy thoughts about him time and again, Sherlock always seemed, well, detached from sex, women and lust in every way. Until Irene Adler had appeared she thought he might have been gay! But now the question of why, or to whom he had been wanking off to was stuck in her mind.

Meanwhile on the other side of the door, Sherlock sat frozen against his pillow, his member still in hand, too much in shock to do anything else. Belatedly he realised he had forgotten to lock the door. Her notebook lay open next to him. He saw just how incriminating it must have looked and hoped to god she had not seen it. He shoved it quickly under his grey comforter. He stalked over to his bathroom to clean himself up. In the mirror he saw his flushed features and realized this foreign emotion he was feeling must be embarrassment! He cleaned himself up efficiently, the erotic afterimages still in his mind's eye. Acknowledging that this incident would prove awkward, he came to the conclusion that he could not interact with her more than what was truly necessary. Therefore he would take this opportunity to visit john. Now that Moriarty knew he was alive it seemed pointless to continue the charade. That and he could not bear facing Molly after what she had just seen. She would want to 'talk' about it. Why do people always want to talk about things? John was the same. Always talking about emotions and the right thing to do. It was so..boring. Yes that's what it was, and nothing else. Absolutely nothing to do with the fear that Molly might be repulsed by what she had seen.

While the detective was coming to grips with the Incident, Molly had unfrozen and was starting to see the funny side of it. His face when she had burst in on him had been absolutely hilarious! She started to giggle just thinking about it. Come to think of it she had never seen him looking anything less than perfect with his hair tousled just so and his button popping shirts and his coat. She conjured up the scene again in her mind's eye and saw his ruffled hair, his eyes wide with shock, and his mouth open in an altogether comical way. Her giggles erupted into full blown laughter.

And it was in the middle of this laughing fit that Sherlock opened the door to his room. Incorrectly deducing the reason for her laughter, he became as red as a beetroot and redder still when she attempted to stop laughing and instead burst out laughing harder at his blush. She was laughing at how the great calm cool detective had been so brought low, adorably, but still. He thought she was laughing at his manhood. Perhaps it was lacking in some way to cause her to laugh so. He grabbed his coat and made a quick, if not dignified exit.

His blush took almost 2 blocks to recede. He had decided to walk rather than take his customary taxi because it was sunset and peak hour traffic was very heavy. With the Molly incident receding from the front of his mind, he decided on how he would see john. When he had heard that John had started limping again, he realized he could not delay meeting john to inform him of his continued existence for too long.

Before long he was turning onto Baker Street, walking toward his old flat. At the door he hesitated for a moment, before raising his arm to use the knocker on 221B. Mrs Hudson answered the door, still turned back to talk to somebody. When she did turn to face the visitor on the stoop, she let out a scream and just stared at him; then she rushed forward to envelop him in a warm hug. Sherlock hugged her back, feeling as if he had finally come home. "Sherlock! Oh Sherlock! You're alive! Terrible of you not to have told us you silly boy. You would have saved us the tears."

"I'm glad to see you too Mrs Hudson. It has not been the same without you".

"But my dear where have you stayed this past months? And however did you survive the fall?"

"All in good time Mrs Hudson, all in good time. Where is john?"

"Upstairs my dear. He doesn't do much these days. His limp is back, and its worse than it was before. Oh Sherlock it's a great thing that you are alive, but could you not have told him? He is suffering so much!"

"I had to. I did not have a choice. I'll go see him now shall I?"

The last he said hesitantly, almost afraid of john's reaction to him. There was a niggling feeling in his stomach. It took him some time to realise that it was guilt. Bah emotions. Such weakness. Apparently even being gifted with a genius intellect did not make you immune to weaknesses like emotions. Shaking his head his climbed the stairs to his old apartment. The door was ajar. He slowly pushed it open, taking in the scene.

It did not look like it had been disturbed. His things were still in their usual disarray although he preferred to call it a special type of organisation. They were dusty. Hmm. Someone had deliberately stopped Mrs Hudson from cleaning this room. John. He stepped further into the room and was stopped short by the sight of john dozing in sherlock's favourite chair. John was cuddling the skull in one hand, a open bottle of scotch in the other, and was snoring softly. Rather than wake him from his slumber, Sherlock decided to get back to his experiments and let the beating and emotions come later.

Three hours later john blinked himself awake. Seeing Sherlock at his usual spot at the kitchen table, eyes buried in the microscope, he laughed loudly. "I have finally lost it. It doesn't seem so bad. At least the rest of the world is the same. Except now I see dead people"

Sherlock looked up. "Ah you are awake. Tea?"

"You never used to make me tea. You always made me make you tea. More proof that I've gone bonkers. But I guess I could get used to this".

"You aren't bonkers john. I didn't die."

"No. I saw your grave, I went for your funeral. You are dead and I have gone mad. I am seeing dead people. I wonder if my dad and mum are going to appear anytime soon".

Sherlock walked over to where john was standing, grabbed his shoulders and gave him a shake. "John, I'm alive. I never died. Molly helped me fake my death. You need to snap out of this now".

"What? Sher-Sher-Sherlock? How is this possible? You were dead I saw you jump! There was so much blood everywhere." Raising his voice to a shout, "YOU WERE DEAD. Sherlock, DO you know what it did to me? DO YOU? Now you walk back in here.." He pulls back his right hand, fist clenched and gives Sherlock a facer. Our consulting detective stood there, taking it, not blocking the punch even though he easily could have. Sherlock still did not say anything, letting the facts sink into john's mind, bracing himself for further violence. He deserved it anyhow. But john did not seem intent on further violence. The fight seemed to go out of him after the punch and he stood there looking at Sherlock. "It's real. I'm Not imagining anything, I haven't gone mad, you are really alive!" he moved to envelope Sherlock in a strong hug, one the detective returned. After a moment or so, the men broke apart awkwardly, both in the grips of strong emotion.

John broke the awkward silence, "So, I'm glad you are alive".

"As am I."

The both turned away, embarrassed, John to his couch, Sherlock to the kitchen. After a while curiosity got the better of john and he asked Sherlock how he had managed to carry it off. The men, brothers not in blood but in bond, sat together as Sherlock unravelled his brilliant escape, unconsciously highlighting Molly's role in the entire escapade. John noticed that he mentioned her name more than was necessary, and decided to call him out on it. "So for the past two months you stayed with Molly Hooper, and basically fell in love with her."

"What? John don't talk nonsense. I've done no such thing"

"Why didn't she follow you here today? I would think that she would want to be around for such an important meeting."

"We had a, minor disagreement". Clearly uncomfortable and slightly pink Sherlock turned away, his body language indicating a lack of interest in talking further about the matter. Now this was interesting. Sherlock was always eager to talk about how superior he was over other people. If he did not want to talk about a disagreement, it meant he had lost. And lost to Molly of all people. Now he definitely had to hear this story.

"Oh no Sherlock, you aren't getting off that easy. What was this disagreement about? "

"Absolutely nothing to concern yourself with John. It is over and has been dealt with."

"Oh really? Is that why your face bears an uncanny resemblance to a beetroot?"

**tee hee. just a little teasing from the best friend. next chapter expect some evil from morriarty. **


	7. Roses and Blood-Chapter 7

**So sorry for the late update! but i hope u guys enjoy this. more evil from moriarty.**

Chapter 7

Once you have eliminated the impossible whatever remains however improbable must be the truth. John had heard Sherlock mutter the same sentence while solving seemingly impossible cases. However improbable it seemed, the truth of the matter was that Sherlock was in love with Molly Hooper!

'So have you kissed her yet?'

"JOHN!" Sherlock started sputtering.

Failing to hide a gleeful smile, "I see that you have. It's alright if you don't want to tell me what happened, but as long as you aren't going to tell me, I'm simply going to presume that it involves a highly embarrassing situation with you and her winner in whatever argument that you two must have had."

"Yes fine whatever." He hurriedly changed the subject, "John, you need to know the reason I came to visit you. You know that I..jumped to protect you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade from Moriarty's goons. I came back here because he is still alive. Moriarty is still alive".

"I thought he was? No one ever told me he died. There was no report in the news that he had died! There was only an extensive coverage on you!"

"He shot himself. In the mouth; In order to get me to kill myself. That was why I jumped. There appeared to be no other way. And now.."

"Sherlock, did you see brain matter? A shot through the mouth would have, let's put it delicately..blown his brains out! You should have checked! In any case, it is in the past. How did you find out that he was still alive?"

"He sent me a lock of hair. Molly's hair."

"No message, no letter? Nothing else?"

"It was delivered by courier. And it was specified that it be delivered to Sherlock Holmes".

"Oh. But no one knows that you are alive."

"Exactly. Well apart from Mycroft that is. But there is no reason for Mycroft to send me her hair. It just isn't his style. No. This is more along the lines of Moriarty. Remember the bread crumbs?"

"No note, just the delivery. Yes I can see that pattern. But this means that Molly might be in danger!"

"I'm afraid so."

"Sherlock you idiot! Why are you not with her? Making sure she is safe?"

Sherlock was struck dumb. In the furore of her finding him in an ahem, delicate position he had forgotten the danger that she was in. "We have to get back to her!"

"Get the taxi, Il get my coat."

The men rushed to hail a taxi all the while hoping against hope that nothing had happened to Molly.

Meanwhile back at Molly's flat, she had cleaned up the mess that Sherlock had created in her kitchen, sorting through the rubbish and his experiments, wondering just how things were going to be between them. She was elbow deep in soap suds when the doorbell rang. Yelling that she would be at the door soon she cleaned her hands off on the apron that she was wearing. It was probably Sherlock at the door. "Forgotten his keys again the idiot! I swear, one of these days I'm not going to be at home when he rings the doorbell and what is he going to do then?'

Still muttering she opens the door to be greeted by an enormous profusion of white roses, qwith a single crimson rose in the centre. The arrangements shifts and she sees the deliveryman. "Delivery for Ms Molly Hooper. Could you sign for it?"

"Um, sorry yea. Would you like to set it down?'

"Sure miss. And you have to sign, right here".

"Any clue who it is from?"

"Well miss there is a card."

"Oh okay. Will there be anything else?"

"No miss. Thank you and have a great evening"

Molly placed the expensive cut crystal vase on the coffee table and turned to read the card. It was deuced odd the flowers. No one had ever bothered to send her any before, let alone this many. She flipped the card open and read, "Sweet sweet Molly. I miss you. The flowers reminded me of your snow white skin, and the bright crimson I'd like to see against it soon. Very very soon. –your ardent admirer"

As she read the message, her blood turned to ice in her veins. First her hair, now this? She was not safe. Not alone, not here, not without Sherlock. She raced to the door and threw the bolt. Next she rushed to every opening every window in the house and secured it. Next she picked up her phone and dialled the number that would connect her to Sherlock. Her voice shook. "Sherlock?"

"Molly! Are you okay? I and John are in a taxi, we will be there soon. Why is your voice shaking? What is wrong?"

"Nothing. Not yet in any case. I just had a delivery. A vase of roses. With a note. From Him."

After a long pause, "Stay there, lock all the entrances, windows, everything. I'm coming".

She hung up, and went to wait on the sofa with a cup of tea, where she curled her knees to her chest, her thoughts turning to peaceful if not happier times when she had been dating Jim the IT guy. Jim had been really sweet and chivalrous; buying her dinners, takeout and movies, but no kissing, or sexual attraction; at least not on his end. When Sherlock has given his one word verdict, "gay", her heart had sunk, but she had also been disappointed to realise that her fears had been true. Her one attempt at making him jealous had not worked in the slightest. And after that she had not bothered; and had only gone out with men if she really liked them. Her curse was that she really had no options to fall in love with another man. Her heart belonged to the world's only consulting detective even if he did not seem to want it. She didn't blame him in any way. Next to Irene Adler, she was excruciatingly plain and simple, and well, ugly. Suddenly her living room seemed stifling. There were reminders of her failures everywhere. Deciding to disregard Sherlock's instructions (Who was he anyway to tell her what to do? One kiss does not a boyfriend make. HA she wished.) she went to get her coat and her pink scarf. So Moriarty might be out there. So he might be watching her. She'd take him over her memories and reminders of her failures any day. She stepped out into the cool night, ignoring the steady drizzle of rain that was falling. This was London after all.

As she stepped out onto the street, she was struck by the memories of the day she had found out Jim from IT was actually Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal. At first she had been shocked, then the bitterness set in. 2 people in her life used her for their own gains and paid no heed to her. Of course she knew that Sherlock had been using her, she wasn't stupid. The extra attention, the smiles, the compliments only were there when he wanted something from her. Despite the blatant exploitation, she still helped him, because she loved him. Isn't that what people do? Sacrifice for the ones they love? In this case it would never be recognised but it was a conscious decision on her part to help him. Sherlock would never love her. She knew that. But she could not help but dream. It was worse with Sherlock in her flat. His scent was everywhere, his presence so tangible even when he wasn't in the same room as her. This of course had played havoc on her hormones and led to a spate of fantasies which she scribed into her book. Funny thing she hadn't seen the book for a couple of days. "Meh, il just wait for it to turn up".

The cab stopped at 42 Harley Street and John waited to pay the cabbie while Sherlock ran up the stairs to the flat where Molly was waiting. His hand shook as he knocked on the door and asked her to open it. A lack of a response sent adrenaline flooding through his system and he opened the door with his own key, only to be greeted by an empty flat. There appeared to be no signs of struggle. The other windows did not have any sign of being tampered with. The deadlock had not been thrown when he had opened the door. Steadily rage filled him as he realised his stupid pathologist has completely disregarded his instructions to stay within the house. Further examination supported this assumption as her shoes, jacket and scarf were missing. There was a cup of tea, still hot on the coffee table. Therefore she had just left ergo she could not have gotten so far.

John hurried into the flat and stopped short as he realised that the room was only occupied by one detective. "Molly in the room?"

"No. she left, and went on a walk! A walk when one of the world's most dangerous criminals is out there looking for her, spreading a trap for her. I never thought she could be this dim". Sherlock's teeth were clenched in anger and he spat the words at John.

"Calm down Sherlock, I'm sure that she must have a very good reason for stepping out".

"It had better be a Bloody. Medical. Emergency."

Sherlock whirled around and stalked out of the room leaving John in her flat.

**is it just me or is angry Sherlock kind of sexy?**


	8. Chapter 8 The Past and the Present

**Guys thank you SO much for the reviews and the support! I REALLY REALLY NEEED! And methinks its time for.. WHOLOCK! WARNING! this chapter has grisly details of autopsies and murders by a copycat jack the ripper. Definitely M rated. **

Sherlock stalked out of the apartment building cursing at the rain, at her, at the universe for letting him develop feelings.

"! #$%^&*( #^$#%^&*(#$%^&*()#$%^&*($#!$ #%!%#$^ %$#! %# !$#^ !$& !#^! ^#452!^#4 !#^ #% !#$% ^ &!$ !%$% ^$&! $ !^$% ^!$& ^%$ !$^% !$ ^!$% !$$%$"

After a good three minute cursing streak which nearly turned the air around him blue, he proceeded to air his feelings toward Molly at that particular point in time; which consisted of alternative cursing and scolding of his pathologist. After a while, his rumblings became low growls; as his anger turned to worry as night grew. He had been walking for so long and he had looked in all her usual haunts and he still hadn't found her.

Where are you?-SH

He tried her phone, more than 5 times when his text failed to elicit a reply. His phone dinged and the highly dextrous Sherlock Holmes almost dropped his phone in the excitement that molly might have replied.

Have you found her? -JW

No. -SH

Do stop texting me, it is most annoying.-SH

Back at the flat, john looked at Sherlock's text and smiled. God it was good to have him back even if he could be the world's most annoying git sometimes. He wasn't worried about Molly. If there was one person who could find her it would be Sherlock. John settled into Molly's cosy flat and made himself a cuppa.

(15 minutes previously)

Molly slowly walked away from her flat. Her arms were wrapped protectively around her torso as if to protect herself from more harm. She decided to walk to the Chinese shop for food, might as well since she was already out. There must be something wrong with her brain. Some kind of chemical defect; either that or she had bought her ticket to the loony train the day the detective had walked into the morgue.

OOoooOOOoo FLASHBACK oOOooooOOOO

Molly reached over for the scalpel as she slowly used a black felt tip to make the markings of where to cut the cadaver. It was a 27 year old female who had been murdered by the psychopath calling himself Jack the Ripper. He had been imitating the killer who had terrorized London in the 1800s. the body had been mutilated almost beyond recognition. This was one sadistic sicko who had studied the ripper's techniques extensively to recreate them perfectly. This included leaving letters and pieces of organs. Stifling a shudder she spoke into the overhead microphone 'time is 11.45am and this is the jack the ripper case, 27 year old female, a Ms Waltham. 3.3 cm mole on right cheek. Injuries include 4 inch lateral slice across the throat from the right to the left, bruising on throat and discoloration of inner cheeks and gums indicating strangulation, 6 by 3 inch cut in abdomen with the intestines of bruising on the back of the head indicates that the killer had not dropped the victim but had lowered them onto the ground. Blood splatter pattern in the body indicates that the throat was cut after strangulation till death and not before. There are indications that blood had pooled under the neck and near the head rather than flowing downwards. Moving on, there is no sign of sexual abuse or semen or bruising on the thighs. Lateral slice of 6 inches in the pelvic cavity. Opening the chest cavity."

she made one large "Y" shaped incision from each shoulder across the chest to the brisket, then down to the belly button, spread open the skin to check to see if any ribs were broken. "No broken ribs."

Molly took up her scalpel and opened up the slit in the abdomen, and peeled back the skin. 'Examination of the pelvic cavity reveals a missing uterus which has been removed with a clean cut. Probably by someone with medical organs are not disturbed.'

The murderer had been disturbingly accurate in following the murders of 1888. The latest one, the second murder eerily mirrored the 2nd confirmed murder of the ripper. The victim had been discovered in Dunford street the same place where the original ripper had left his second victim. She had read extensively on the case, obsessively even. Molly's obsession with death also extended to serial killers. While she often dealt with the aftermath, she found that she wanted to understand them. Needed to, on some level, find justifications for why they did the things that they did; commit the atrocities that they did. When she had seen this body, she knew without a doubt that it had been the work of the copycat killer.

She finished her examination and was writing up her final notes when the door to the mortuary banged open. A tall slender man strode in, and on his heels, a harried looking DI Lestrade. He strode confidently, right up to the body of Amanda Waltham and whipped out a mini magnifying glass, the type you would find in a street directory to help with the tiny letters. He proceeded to examine the body without so much as a by your leave. She was struck by his beauty; if a man could ever be called beautiful, this one definitely qualified. His chocolate curls had been messed just so, to create the impression that he had just tumbled out of bed. He had sharp chiselled cheek bones and a clearly defined cupid's bow on his upper lip that looked perfectly fashioned by the gods. He was so pale, he could pass for a vampire in a romance novel teens these days loved to read. Whether she fell in love with him in that moment she could not say, but she definitely fell into lust with him.

Lestrade spoke, cutting into her mini fantasy involving the stranger, a stopped lift and her. "Sherlock, meet Molly Hooper, the main pathologist for this case. Molly Hooper, meet Sherlock Holmes, he is going to be assisting in the copycat murders."

"Assisting? I didn't think the yard needed help."

Lestrade bristled. He had been close to winning molly over. The last thing he needed was to look incompetent in front of her. But with Sherlock there was there any other option?

"Well of course the yard didn't need help, he volunteered!"

"Oh. Well anyway, hello!" She extended her hand to shake with his and she was nonplussed when he simply ignored it and continued examining the body.

She looked to Lestrade for an explanation and he simply shrugged back at her and rolled his eyes. After about a minute or so, he straightened from his perusal of the body and began speaking extremely quickly. "The victim was a woman late thirties, streetwalker, dyed her hair, but she recently came into some money either by earning or stealing judging by the expensive manicure that has been ruined in her desperate attempts to fight the attacker off. The attacker on the other hand, is a man, mid thirties, right handed, someone with surgical knowledge. The cuts have been made deliberately, unhurriedly. He has done this before only this time he wants us to know that it's him. Needless to say the style of the murder mirrors that of the 2nd confirmed ripper murder. "

Molly let out the breath that she had been holding since he started speaking. He had deduced everything that she had found in 2 hours in a matter of a minute and more! If Sherlock had been hot before, he was now completely irresistible. If there was one thing that turned Molly on, it was intelligence. She was a goner.

From that day onwards, he became a regular presence in her life. Well, perhaps not regular, but definitely a commanding one. She became his lab assistant; a task well outside her job description but she gladly did it as it gave her a legitimate reason to be in the same room as him. She knew it was pathetic but she could not help herself. Her devotion to the detective became somewhat of a joke to her colleagues and her closer friends tried to dissuade her. Shy though Molly Hooper might be, she was highly headstrong, and she refused to listen to anyone and continued on her path of silent adoration.

Eventually the detective realised the extent of power he held over his pathologist and began to exploit it. Molly realised that being in love with Sherlock was sheer hell. He knew just how close to stand next to her, just the right smile, a couple of fake compliments to get her to do whatever he wanted to do. The worst of it was that Molly knew that these were coldly calculated efforts designed to extract favours from her and yet she complied. She loved him, did she have any other choice? It felt like repeated stab wounds to the heart interspersed with occasional shots of morphine which were so pleasurable that she endured more stab wounds. In some ways she was a drug addict, and her drug was Sherlock Holmes.

OOOOOooooOOOOOOooooOOOOOOO

Lost in her memories, Molly had bypassed the Chinese restaurant and had wandered into a rather unsavouryneighbourhood. Jeers and catcalls roused her from her reverie and jerked her into the present. Her blood chilled when she realized where she was. It was rumoured that a spate of disappearances of women had been the work of a gang whose turf this was. She picked up her pace; walking confidently despite not knowing which way was home. To show weakness in such a district was a sure fire way to ask for trouble.

"Well halloo! What have we got here? Such a tasty sweetmeat!" The deep cold voice sent chills up her spine. She turned around and bravely called out to the shadows, "Who is that? I'm warning you, I am armed!" Her fingers reached into her front pocket and closed around the small can of pepper spray that she always had on her person. The voice responded with a chilling laugh, one that made molly's hair on her nape stand on its end. A lone figure detached itself from the shadows and began walking towards her. In that deep cold voice he began detailing what he would do to her when he caught her. The obscene words washed over her and galvanized her frozen feet into action. She started running, not knowing where she was headed but certain she was heading away from the creep. She ran with her head turned back to make sure he was not gaining on her, when she realized she had run into a brightly lit room of a sort. Completely at odds with her surroundings, this place was a warm orange. She turned back to where she had come from and saw a set of blue doors which she had run through. Beyond those doors was the alleyway through which she had just come hurtling through. Just as the shadows resolved into a man's shape, the blue doors snapped shut and the whole room lurched forwards and backwards with a loud whooshing noise. Molly clung to the holes in the perforated floor to prevent herself from being thrown about. The wild idea of a localized earthquake occurred to her, but she dismissed it as there was no possibility of the UK ever getting an earthquake. As quickly as it had begun, it ended and she picked herself up from the floor. She turned around to find a really tall skinny man with shock of unruly brown hair grinning with every tooth he had, at her. He was clad in a electric blue suit and red converse high tops. "Hallo!"

**So yes I've decided to introduce the 10 doctor to the story, most probably as a love interest and as competition for Sherlock. I think he deserves a hard time after all the crap he put molly through don't you think?**


End file.
